


swallowed the dice

by seventhe



Series: Sev's Commission Run 2019 [8]
Category: Final Fantasy VI
Genre: Clothing Porn, F/M, Heist, M/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M, gratuitous appreciation of locke's ass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-26 01:14:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19757575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/seventhe
Summary: I swallowed the dice / I make my own luck now.Locke, Celes, and Setzer are taking things into their own hands in the aftermath of Kefka. They're tracking the shadows of the Empire, taking back what belongs to others, and celebrating having found a life to suit them all.





	swallowed the dice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lassarina Aoibhell (Lassarina)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lassarina/gifts).



> A commission for my darling Lassarina, who asked for Locke, Celes, and Setzer executing some sort of heist with clothing porn. There is in fact clothing, and porn, and clothing porn.

Her dress is pale yellow, near the color of her hair, layers of silk upon satin and intricate beadwork all up the trunk. It’s the fanciest thing she’s ever worn, and she’s fascinated with it: the time it took someone, somewhere, to stitch this pattern bead by bead, a swath of sparkling texture rising from her left hip to span over her right shoulder. The pattern is tiny suns and stars, swirling lines connecting them, in white and gold and bronze. Celes keeps touching it, her right hand drifting over the lines of art resting at her collarbone.

She doesn’t love or hate the dress, has no feelings about it that differ from any other clothing she might wear, but she’s fascinated by the time someone took to make every single detail of this. For what? This ball? Do women re-wear these, or is that a faux pas? How much time goes into the construction of the skirt alone, all of its drapes and folds cleverly engineered? 

Celes knows as she walks into the ballroom that the dress is camouflage, as much as any other uniform she’s worn. She knows that the people looking are marking her hair, her gown, her poise. No one will see a General in this thing, with delicate layers framing her cleavage and the sparkle of the beadwork echoed in the trim of the skirts. They’ll see the slope of her neck and the smile she’s practiced. 

She glances over at Setzer, who’s looking every inch the rich benefactor who would commission a gown like this. He’s in starched linen and rich velvet, a combination that shouldn’t work but _does,_ with his pale hair and lean frame. It’s a long jacket, nearly a coat, over perfectly tailored pants tucked into a pair of rich leather boots. 

And people are looking at them appropriately, trailing eyes over their presentation, and Celes responds with a regal nod to their appreciation. It’s exactly what she wants, eyes on her and her consort, and idle pleasantries. The admiration of others, perhaps. Then again, they’re here to rob the place blind, so perhaps not.

———

The problem with these kind of parties, Locke thinks to himself while crawling around in the rafters, is that these people are _so filthy rich_ and yet they never clean their rafters. They should take pride in their huge mansions, he thinks. Dust once or twice. Let some poor maid service take a break from polishing the floor and get up here with a dust mop. He always ends up in the fucking ceiling. Next time, he gets the fancy jacket, and Setzer can have the dust bunnies. It’s his turn to seduce the rich guy, or girl, or whatever.

Not that they’re here for seduction tonight. Although Celes could pull it off: her pale gown and pale skin and pale hair make her look like some kind of ethereal spirit, and in this crowd she stands out like a queen. This season’s styles are all rich jewel tones, thick embroidery, peacock blue and burnt sienna. Locke likes knowing things. It helps them work like this, when he knows things, when he knows how to make her stand out. Which she does, all pale gold and regal. It’s amazing what a costume can do; Celes has poise to spare but no one in that ballroom has any idea that it comes from military rigor. All they’ll see is wealth, a proper upbringing, a lady of taste.

Which is gonna make it even better when Locke gets out of here with the contents of their safe.

God, she’s beautiful. Locke can’t take his eyes off of her — off of either of them, really, although Setzer’s not dressed to attract attention, not next to Celes. But he’s wearing this long trim coat that emphasizes his shoulders, slender pants, and his hair’s half pulled back into a bun: he looks sleek, slim, someone who would be dangerous were they not excessively wealthy. It’s a good look on him.

Locke doesn’t really like the ceilings, but by god, he likes to watch.

———

It’s always Setzer’s job to get things in motion because Locke’s always sneaking around somewhere and Celes has to pay attention to her _performance_. Setzer knows how to be the distraction as well as anyone else in their little _menage a trois,_ and they’ve played that up when necessary, but: the truth is, there’s nothing so show-stopping as a beautiful woman in this world, and so Celes remains their usual show-stopper. She’s taken to it over these couple months like a professional, which might be surprising to someone who only knew her as General Chere, but there’s as much acting and pandering in the military as there is on the stage. He and Locke know her better than that.

A server comes to offer them something expensive in crystal, and Setzer fakes a tumble and neatly picks the man’s pocket. Whether this key is the one they’re looking for or not doesn’t necessarily matter, because one key can open the door to a number of other keys, and there’s more than one thing they’re looking for here tonight. 

Minutes later he steps out to the water closets and slips the key into the vent, where he knows Locke will find it.

On Setzer’s scale, this is an incredibly boring party. Empty-headed ex-Imperials, families who managed to hold onto money through the simple blessing of having too much of it, all of them politely thankful that the world has been saved but a little too overly concerned as to who will be stepping into the empty seat of power the Empire once claimed. He knows their type. They’re all incredibly attractive, dull, and incredibly easy to distract.

Celes catches his eye and only someone who knew her so well would notice the slight lift of her eyebrow. He nods back, because no one’s watching him, and proceeds across the ballroom to give her space.

\------

It’s easy for Celes to think in missions, she finds, easier than the way Locke has to lay out the entire plan in one run-on sentence that lasts twenty minutes, easier than the way Setzer has to visualize all of it, sketching maps and diagrams. She simply sorts the information through in her brain and organizes by mission, the way she works best. Their objectives here tonight are intertwined, sure, related, but even one would count this night’s efforts a success.

First, they’re here to obtain information on a man known as Hector, who Celes suspects was a colonel in the Imperial Army and Locke suspects of illegally seizing salvage rights to land and property that technically belongs to Mobliz and would be immensely helpful in Terra’s restoration efforts. Setzer, as usual, just hates the man, which makes sense because he’s a truly pompous buffoon with the morals of a rock. They’ve been closing in on him for weeks now, but he’s good, always slipping away. This one is for her to do, and it’s why she’s in costume for it.

Second, they’re here to steal the equivalent of what Hector stole from Mobliz, to return it to the orphans there who need it a bit more than a man who’s technically still a millionaire even after Kefka wrecked the map, destroyed the economy, and nearly ended the world. This one is Locke’s, because he takes personal pride in stealing from the rich and redistributing their wealth. Also, he’s tricky.

Setzer’s their support, but if offered the chance he’s to also pilfer a famous set of relics, old samurai swords worth nothing in value but billions on the market, along with anything else he can get his hands on, to confuse the issue as much as he can.

Celes surveys the playing field. Her best bet will be the circle of ladies slightly to the left of the stage, who show signs of high class and excited drinking, but she can’t _start_ there. Instead she maneuvers herself towards the couple hosting this gala, to extend her thanks. Thus the game begins.

It’s funny how, years ago, she was so afraid to step onto the stage of the Opera House, all eyes on her. Now she’s figured out how to do it: It’s so much easier to wear a mask now that she knows who she is underneath.

\------

He’s fucking dusty and sweaty and bleeding - he always ends up frigging bleeding, no matter how careful he is, and even when he remembers his gloves - but the third key Setzer slips him is the one he was hoping for, and just like that they’re in business. Locke wastes no time pressing the key into the molding clay and then using Edgar’s special black-market compound to make a dupe, returning the key to the ventilation of the water closet. These vents are sub-par, obviously filched from the ruins of Vector, but at least there’s a vent from the shitter that lets them play this game. It’s more than Mobliz has, he knows, and that thought always makes him angry.

(And yes, Edgar’s provided them with _so many_ nice things, although Locke thinks at least half of it is his hope of receiving an invitation to their bed. Edgar’s obvious when you’ve known him as long as Locke has.)

This particular key leads him into a storage room with a particular hallway they’d learnt about from a particular man they’d been able to bribe who used to work here. That hallway then leads to the treasure room, which is of course the dumbest place to keep a treasure, but Locke appreciates when their opponents are dumb. It makes their work so much easier. 

From there he just has to pick a number of locks in the dark without being detected, lift a notable sum from the coffers, and fade away back into the dusty shambles of the rafters. Outside the door, Locke grins.

\------

Setzer’s enjoying returning keys to random pockets. It’s a skill he’s had since he was a child, quick-fingered and slick, and so often bored at galas like these. He drops one onto the floor, slips another into a different server’s pocket, takes the time to tie two together before landing them into the gap of someone’s boot. This way all the thievery and key-swapping can be blamed on good-natured mischief, someone having a prank, and hopefully it’ll just take that much longer for anyone to figure out they’re being robbed and infiltrated.

He knows Locke thinks his work is the most fun, but Setzer enjoys this part: playing the rogue with people, keeping an eye on Celes and making as much distracting mischief as he possibly can without obviously interfering with anything at the party. Locke’s welcome to get off on stealing large sums of money (and he does, and he _will_ ); Setzer’s happy with this sleight-of-hand. 

He stops to obtain a drink, something dry and dark; he’s fully versed in the wines of South Figaro, but this must be another region, carrying a bitter aftertaste he finds he appreciates. He makes a mental note to slip a bottle on his way out the door if he can, and turns back to watch Celes.

His fingers run along the soft velvet trim of his jacket. As they move up in the criminal world, so has their clothing, and Setzer’s not far enough from his days of luxury to pretend he doesn’t enjoy it. The jacket is stiff enough to give the velvet some form, and it broadens his shoulders in a way he finds himself entirely fond of. He isn’t sure whether Locke will get to make his own grand entrance, but he hopes Locke will at least agree to put his outfit on before they peel it off.

\------

Celes can’t keep her hands out of her skirts, or her fingertips off of her bodice; she’s glad again that Locke insisted she wear the gloves, fabric thin enough to be nearly sheer, to hide sword-calluses and the stains of the road. She’s playing it up, since she enjoys the sensation anyway; anyone watching her will see a lady dressed in finery but just not _quite_ used to it.

She’s attracted a bit of attention from the ladies in the corner, and is now sipping something disgustingly sweet as they all chatter about whose husband was seen drunk last night and which neighbor wore the particularly unflattering hat. Celes laughs, as is expected, and no one knows she’s laughing at the inanity of these statements. It never ceases to shock her - although it shouldn’t - that people still care about these things in a world that’s nearly ended twice.

Someone jostles her elbow, and it’s a group of men, ostensibly seeking their ladies for dances. To her surprise, the hand remains on her elbow, and Celes turns to look into a face that’s hauntingly familiar and isn’t Setzer at all. 

The man they suspect is Hector is thick, but not round: he carries a lot of weight on his frame, but most of it is stocky muscle. He’s wearing a particularly glamorous military-style coat, although it’s carefully free from any medals or markings Celes recognizes. His trousers are rich, thick, as if he’s showing off opulence without flaunting it. As a professional in the realm, Celes approves, understands his gesture. As someone intending to completely ruin his evening, she’s just coldly amused.

“My lady,” he says, and his voice is even more familiar. He must be from the Army; she needs to remember his _name._ “May I have this dance? You’re the loveliest thing in this room.”

She chuckles, as she should, and nods, a little bow over her own hand. “I’m sure this splendid decor might disagree,” she replies, trying to sound overwhelmed and a little bit flirty. She was never the best at light conversation, but Locke and Setzer both have taught her, teased her again and again until her skills - _game,_ as Locke calls it, with his rogue’s grin - are better than competent.

“You’ve a good eye,” the man who isn’t Hector says, pleased. “‘Tis my coffers that have decorated these halls, and I’m proud to acknowledge it.” He sweeps her into one of the old Vectorian forms, and Celes smiles at the faint memory of Setzer teaching her and Locke the steps, over and over, lessons that always ended in laughter and a tumble into bedsheets.

“It’s beautiful, my lord,” and this she can say without pretending, for as gaudy as it may be overall, there are touches of absolutely mesmerizing taste here and there, and Celes wonders whether she can get the name of his decorator out of him along with his secrets.

“As are you,” he adds, pointedly. “My lady …?”

The pause is weighted, and Celes ducks her head as if shy. “Rosa,” she says, “Rosa of Gambor.” Gambor is a new town growing up in the outskirts of the Ex-Vector Wasteland, and it was chosen for its strategic position not only to the ruins but to the money, as well.

“Well met.” There’s a sort of smug smile on his face, as he leads her through a more tricky combination than usual, and Celes blesses Locke’s nimble feet for showing her how to execute it perfectly. “I am Lord Hector, my lady, of New Vector.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Celes lies through her teeth, and lets him spin her — mainly because her skirts flare out so beautifully.

——

It’s probably petty, and probably vain, but Locke fucking _loves_ when he gets to do this.

He strolls into the party, handing his crumpled invitation to one of the guards while jauntily saluting the other with a sloppy collection of fingers that’s meant to be non-complimentary, and walks onto the dance floor to let himself be seen.

Locke’s never meant to be a show-stopper like Celes. In fact, he really only gets to go to half the parties, since most of the time he’s the one up to his elbows in rafters and ventilation; but if he walks in the door, it’s the signal to Celes and Setzer that his portion of their heist has gone over willingly and he’s there, at their disposal, for any other pieces they want to execute.

The thing is, he maybe isn’t meant as a show-stopper the way Celes in her gown has been turning heads all night, but he’s meant to, well, ruffle some feathers. Locke knows what he looks like as he swaggers over to the bar. His trousers are dark denim, well-cut, and tucked into the most supple below-the-knee leather boots he could find, because that style’s _in_ now. His white shirt is frightfully bare of ruffles - and, he wants to note to some of the ladies, a somewhat transparent soft linen - and his jacket is a gloriously delicious well-cut bomber in rich brown leather. That would be enough, but they always let him top it off with his scarves and baubles and glitter, and Locke loves it. He isn’t the show-stopper. He’s the distraction.

Plus, he grew up scrounging for change in the trash. It’s always weirdly pleasurable when he gets to wear all the nice things, too.

He saunters right up to the bar and throws himself carelessly on the stool next to Setzer, who recoils as a true gentleman should. They’ve played this game many times. “Hi there,” Locke says in his lowest voice, and he’s happy to see Setzer’s pupils widen with arousal even as he continues to look mildly offended. “What’s good here?”

“Sir,” Setzer sputters, and _shit_ but Locke loves playing this game; “you don’t seem like a wine man.” He gestures at his own drink, and yeah, it looks incredible, but Locke’s in a role now.

“I’m an anything man,” he brags, loudly, with his best leer. He has to be careful with it because it makes Setzer laugh, so he turns it on the bartender instead. “Sir! Fine sir, what is your finest whiskey, and may I have two?”

The bartender has apparently been ordered to serve whatever guests want, because there’s only a slight sniff before he fills two glasses with ice and actually pours Locke two drinks. 

“And another for my new friend here,” Locke adds, and that’s when he gets the bartender’s glare. “These are for me,” he says, defensive and a little offended, wrapping his arms around both glasses. “You’ll find I’m a fast drinker.”

Setzer murmurs, “You seem a bit fast,” and the bartender snorts, as he was meant to.

Locke’s role in all this is to play the rogue so well that either Celes or Setzer - whichever one he chooses - gets fed up and grabs the other to leave. He can, then, make whatever kind of showy exit he chooses, and all everyone will remember is the attractive man in the bandanas and leather jacket that charmed all the ladies before he left.

———

Setzer’s grinning internally, although he has to keep his best irritation-face on for appearances. Locke’s here, which means the tidy sum they hoped to net is theirs; additionally, it means Setzer can appreciate the tight trousers that show off Locke’s lean thighs and - although he’d never say it out loud - pert little ass. He downs the rest of his wine and stands up, faking a polite enough huff that the bartender will notice but it doesn’t make a scene.

Celes is perched on a small bench, opposite a very large man, within a circle of laughing lords and ladies. She spots him immediately but doesn’t let anyone know; the quick quirk of her eyebrow has him stalling, walking again towards the water closets. He pauses in front of the floor-length mirror they offer and pretends to fix his hair - although he knows it’s already perfect - and isn’t surprised when Locke stumbles in a few minutes afterwards. Celes probably gave him the same signal.

“God, you hooligan,” Setzer scolds, as Locke checks the room to confirm it’s empty. He pours one of the glasses down the sink with a mournful look, then finishes the other with an appreciative grin. Setzer’s always loved Locke’s expressions; Locke lives through his face, and his joy and cunning and desire are always writ there for anyone to see. Setzer has a gambler’s poker face, too ingrained to do anything about now, but Locke’s always there to make up for it.

“What do you think she’s found?” Locke says instead, stalking towards Setzer to crowd him into the mirror. It’s their cover, of course - vagabond seduces businessman - but it always turns Setzer on, as if they’re role playing for real. “I thought you’d both be gone by now.”

“I don’t know,” Setzer murmurs. Celes is the most difficult to predict of all of them, and while they all know the signs and the language, no one can tell what she’s thinking unless she wants them to. “I never know, love.”

“A surprise for both of us,” Locke leers, and his fingers trace at Setzer’s cheekbones. He can’t help the shiver. “It must be good, then.”

Setzer’s looking forward to playing this game as the door opens, and he tips his head back against the mirrored wall to let Locke move in, but then the voice says, low and amused, “I should have figured you’d be up to no good.”

Celes is smirking at them as Locke pulls away; Setzer shifts, taking in her appearance. Her expression is normal, amused, but she’s got color riding high on her cheeks. “My lady,” he says, still playing the role, “are you quite alright?”

“I’ve just been insulted in the most cruel way,” Celes recites, and Locke laughs at her clear military diction. “The Lady Beatrice has been reprimanded, and my lord Hector will call on me tomorrow at the inn to inquire after my health.” At that, her eyes narrow, and her smile becomes even more smug.

“Hector,” Locke breathes, and Setzer adds at nearly the same time, “He’s here?”

“Yes.” The smile turns creamy, and Celes has always been beautiful with victory. “And we know where he’ll be tomorrow, at some point.”

Setzer smiles at her, so very fond. “My lady, let me escort you home, where you can cry in peace.”

“Truly I have never known such insult,” Celes intones, nearly bored, and Setzer and Locke are both laughing. 

They work quickly: cold water for Celes’ face, to make her skin blotchy; she works her eyes, blinking furiously to redden them, as they muss Locke’s outfit as if he’s been having adventures of the frivolous kind and then send him out as a distraction. Celes looks up with him, her eyes brimming with tears, and Setzer just loves how she’s taken to this life.

“Come on, love,” he murmurs as they exit, “let’s get home.”

———

Celes isn’t surprised when the man who’s also Hector stops them on their way towards the door.

“Lady Rosa,” the man says. She feels the slight tightening of Setzer’s fingers on her arm; it’s normally involuntary, but this time she knows it’s a signal to say he’s mentally marking this face.

“My lord Hector.” She makes an awkward bobble of a curtesy, since she’s supposed to be out of sorts. “This is my cousin, Cecil. I’m terribly sorry to have to leave, I feel right daft, I should—”

“No, no,” Hector protests, although he’s staring at Setzer a little too long, and Celes makes a subtle move to get his attention back on her face. “Please don’t feel badly. I’ll see you tomorrow, still?”

“Yes,” she says, letting herself blush. “Thank you.”

Setzer pulls her away a bit faster than is prudent, but Celes follows willingly. Hector’s face is teasing at her mind, at her memory; she knows she just has to let her thoughts process on their own until she remembers his real name. They make the usual thanks and bows and to-do as they leave, and Setzer hurries her back to their room in the inn. They never stay in the standard one - Celes will have to secure a room there, tomorrow, for their purposes - because they have friends who know friends and a proprietor who’s willing to stay silent and provide excellent stew along with heartily mediocre wine.

“That’s him,” Setzer says, his throat tight, once they’re settled in the room. Celes knows how angry Setzer gets when they cross paths with their targets. He still has his fill of hatred for the Empire and anyone who had been associated with it - excepting herself, of course - and they haven’t been at this long enough for her to know how far down the scars go. She’s sure she’ll find out, eventually. It’s a long road that they’re on.

“Yes,” she says, simply. She walks over to the small table in the corner, pulls the wine out of the ice bucket, pours generously. “There’s plenty enough to discuss. Here, relax.”

Setzer takes it, and lets their hands touch as he does. Celes knows how Setzer gets; knows he must be practically bubbling along with arousal and alarm and heightened emotion at this point. She doesn’t want to start the debrief without Locke, though, so instead she pours herself a glass and sits in the chair across from him. 

“He’s larger than I expected,” Setzer says finally, and Celes chortles.

“Yes,” she says pleasantly, “but there are three of us, and only one of him.”

———

Locke loves when he gets to make an entrance, sure - drink the top-shelf whiskey and taste the expensive snacks, dance with the gorgeous ladies and gentlemen - but if he really had to pick his real favorite thing, it’s this. Coming back to their room, to find Celes and Setzer relaxing; she’s leaned back in a chair, which is as relaxed as she gets while clothed, but Setzer’s sprawled across the bed on his stomach. He grins at them both as he shuts and locks the door. There’s an answering heat in Setzer’s eyes, nearly predatory, and Celes simply tilts her head and smiles her sly smile like she already knows how this will go.

Which, in truth, she does. It usually goes the same way.

Locke saunters into the room, because he knows his ass looks great in these trousers, and pauses to delicately take Celes’ wine glass from her hand and drink deeply. “Good evening, I take it?”

“I’ll start,” Celes says, surprising them both; she usually likes to wait, to hear what they have to report and integrating their pieces before revealing her own, but she stands in one smooth confident move that has Locke’s throat tightening and Setzer making some kind of noise.

“I danced with Lord Hector tonight,” she says, and _oh,_ that makes sense, to lead with that, and Celes steps towards him with _intention._ Locke swallows again, and he glances over to see Setzer sitting on the edge of the bed, with hungry eyes.

Celes trails the backs of her knuckles up the rich leather of Locke’s coat, her touch so soft he can barely feel it. Her fingers come to rest around his collar, loosely grasping at the kerchief he has around his neck. “Lord Hector dances like old Vector, speaks like an Imperial, and his face is familiar to me, though I have not yet recalled his name.” Slowly, so slowly, she eases the bomber off of Locke’s shoulders, letting it fall to pool loosely around his wrists; the sensation of the heavy weight sliding over the soft cloth of his shirt is already giving him goosebumps. “And unless he spooks tonight, he will be at the Inn tomorrow, to check on my composure after an exhausting night at the ball.”

She gestures, and Locke makes quick work of the coat; a simple twist and then he’s picking it up off the floor to hang it on the back of a chair. When he turns, Celes is standing in front of Setzer, looking down at him; there’s open admiration in his face, which Locke recognizes as a normal response to Celes’ ethereal beauty, and then she’s slowly divesting him of his coat as well.

“We can either apprehend him tomorrow,” she says, turning to move back into the center of the room, “or we can choose to let the game play out.”

Locke moves, and then her eyes are on his, blazing. “No,” Celes says, calmly. “Setzer next. You have to wait.”

———

Setzer has no goddamned idea why it’s so arousing to debrief and discuss their heists while undressing, but he’ll be damned if he ever gives it up. Locke’s standing near the table, nearly vibrating, his hands clenched into fists; so Setzer takes his time as he gets off the bed and approaches Celes. She’s standing still and cool, a goddamned image, and she’s the only reason this ever plays out like it does. Locke and Setzer, left to their own devices, are far too impulsive and needy to wait this long.

“I’ve learnt that Lord Hector is a ‘just and fair man, a man of the old days, a man that can be trusted to lead’, they say.” He puts his hand on Celes’ shoulder and turns her to face Locke as he begins to pull the pins and ribbons from her hair. He can see her shoulders drop as she relaxes; they’ve found that Celes adores hands in her hair, and they both go to every length they can to indulge her.

“I’ve also learnt that he’s an asshole to nearly everyone who doesn’t meet his standards,” Setzer continues, “and he’s been claiming all sorts of lands through deeds some people think are made up, in the name of some kind of new Empire.” His hands are steady as they pull the pearls and lace from Celes’ hair; he’s better at this part, because although Locke’s fingers are more nimble than his, only Setzer has the patience to work these pieces out without tangling.

Celes is letting her head sag forward, gently, and Setzer gets his fingers up through her hair on her scalp, massaging deeply, feeling the almost inaudible sound she makes and watching her body sway imperceptibly towards his.

“Also,” he adds, letting his voice drop into a purr that has nothing to do with the subject at hand. “There’s a shipment of new wine, made from those vines on the Mobliz land that was seized, coming into port in three days. I fancy we should be there to pick it up.”

“Mmm,” Celes hums, and Setzer gets back to work. He unwinds her braids and pulls trinkets from her hair, setting them down on the bench at the foot of the bed as he does. “So what’s your vote for tomorrow, then?”

“More profit in letting this play out,” Setzer points out, gathering the mass of her hair up in his fingers, running them through gently like a comb. “More satisfaction in closing this all down. Not sure yet.”

Setzer turns her gently, so that her back is to Locke, and tilts her face up so that he can kiss her: soft at first, until she sways and opens beneath him, and then his tongue is tracing out the warmth of her mouth and she’s clutching at his waist. His hands are back in her hair, tugging gently like she likes, and it’s such a heady feeling having her sighing into his mouth.

He hears Locke step forward, but he isn’t going to stop kissing her just yet.

———

Celes feels Locke’s fingers at the nape of her neck, tracing down the thin line of her spine; she shivers, pressed up against Setzer, as Locke’s fingertips trail down to the first clasp of her dress. 

“I’ve pocketed exactly what we wanted,” he murmurs into her hair, and Celes makes a noise in her throat, feeling caught between Setzer’s warm heat and the teasing gentle trace of Locke’s fingertips. Setzer pulls back only to start pressing his mouth down the lines of her neck, and Locke’s nimble fingers are working away at the fastenings of the dress. She can feel the bodice start to loosen, the soft scrape of silk and satin across her delicate skin. 

Setzer gathers her hair and pulls it forward over her right shoulder, and Locke licks at the newly-bared skin on her back, sucking at it gently. “The worth of the Mobliz land and half again over,” he murmurs, his fingers relentless. Celes runs her hands up Setzer’s broad chest, pulling him back in for another leisurely kiss. His hands rest low on her waist, pulling her forward, and she gets her own fingers into his long hair, pulling until he’s angled just as she likes for kissing. 

Locke gently, with one calloused fingertip, slides the strap of her dress down over her left shoulder. The touch makes her shudder, pulling away from Setzer to breathe into his neck, as Locke follows the trail with his lips. She has goosebumps, her skin all alert and confused by the many textures against it; there’s heat pooling between her thighs, trapped as she is between the two of them. Setzer’s arms feel tight around her, even though his hold is loose enough to let Locke continue his work at her dress.

“I left a note, as a calling card,” Locke adds, his mouth still against the skin of her shoulderblade as his fingers continue to work open the clasps. “Left those relics right there in the middle of the empty coffers. Let them know we could have taken the swords too.” He giggles a little, and Celes feels it at the base of her neck. She’s unbearably fond.

Celes reaches to kiss Setzer again, letting him lick her mouth open with his tongue, answering his need with her own.

———

Locke’s fingers know how to undo all of the tiny fastenings in Celes’ gown, which lets him keep his mouth on her creamy skin, kissing each inch as he reveals it. He can feel the soft tension of her body, and can hear the small sounds she makes in the back of her throat - Celes is quiet, her gasps frequent but small, as if she’s continually surprised in her own body - and he’s already hard in his denim trousers, wanting nothing but to pull at Celes’ hips and rub himself against her. Luckily, Locke is a true gentleman, so he finishes with the fastenings and then trails his fingers slowly up the soft expanse of Celes’ back. He can feel her shudder, under them, and Setzer makes a noise and tugs her closer. 

“Good,” Locke says, and moves to come around behind Setzer.

They’re mostly of a height, so Locke sets his hands on Setzer’s shoulders, running his palms up and down the thin cotton of his shirt, minding the way the soft fabric feels over Setzer’s trim muscles. He buries his face in Setzer’s hair, nosing at the man’s scalp, and brings his fingers down the curve of Setzer’s back to then slide his hands up the other man’s shirt. Setzer makes a noise in the back of his throat, one Celes must swallow, because she sways forward too. 

Locke grips at Setzer’s hips and pulls the man flash up against himself. He knows Setzer can feel his hard prick rubbing against his arse, because Setzer gasps again, some half-muttered curse. Celes follows, as she does so well, and Locke can feel Setzer’s body move, wanton, uncontrollably, as he’s pressed between his two lovers. 

“My lady,” Locke says, using his best rogue’s voice, playful and sinful and a little bit intense. “My lord. There’s still far too much clothing on both of you.”

He steps away from Setzer and meets Celes’ eyes over his shoulder; god, her eyes are dark with want, and her mouth is bruised red from Setzer’s kisses. Locke wants to taste her, a sudden hunger, but he pauses as her smile turns wicked.

“Shall we, my love?” Celes asks him, and Locke nods.

———

There’s an art to this, to being undressed by one’s two lovers, and Setzer will never tire of the heady, overwhelming feeling of being surrounded. Locke’s fingers are at the collar of his shirt, arms wrapped around him from behind, his hot cock pressing into Setzer; Celes’ eyes are on Locke as her slender fingers begin to work at his belt. Setzer’s eyes flutter shut, and for a moment he’s just surrounded by gentle, relentless, seductive touch.

He opens his eyes when Celes works open his belt and starts unlacing his trousers. Her dress is falling away from her, slowly, like the petals of a flower opening; he can see the soft curve of her breasts, one rosy nipple. He’s aching to touch, but it isn’t his turn. Locke’s hands finally drop to his waist, to tug the shirt upwards, and Setzer lets his arms follow the motion as Locke pulls his shirt over his head. Locke’s mouth is there instantly, before the shirt even hits the floor: he sucks at the tendon in Setzer’s neck, bites down a bit, then presses open-mouthed kisses to the line of his spine.

Celes finishes her work and slowly slides everything down; Setzer allows this, too, waiting until she’s crouched to the floor to carefully step out of each leg. He’s stunningly naked between the two of them and he suddenly wants to _feel_ it: all the luxurious fabrics, the texture of those beads, pressed hard into his skin so that they leave marks. 

“Oh, please,” he says, reaching for Celes, and Setzer tugs her tight against him while he slowly draws the dress down off her shoulders. The delicate embroidery glides down the skin of his belly, tugging slightly at his _incredibly_ hard cock, as the dress pools to the ground around Celes’ feet. Setzer’s so wound up he can barely look at her: pale skin and scars, marks of battle etched into her skin before she had the magic to heal them, hair rippling around her shoulders. He wants to touch every one of those marks; he wants to watch Locke trace them with nimble fingers.

Locke’s come round and Setzer decides to just watch as Celes steps out of her undergarments and then, unashamedly naked, works to undress Locke. They’re so beautiful together; Locke’s rough, will always be, and it plays up against the story written on Celes’ skin. She nimbly undoes his buttons, and tugs the shirt off of him. Locke, always impatient, goes for his own belt and fastenings and grins as he pulls everything else off.

Setzer, now, can’t stop looking: Locke’s lean, darker, his skin flushed with arousal, that cheeky grin bordering on absolutely filthy as he looks back. Setzer wants to get his hands on Locke, wants to watch that blush spread. He reaches a hand out to both of them and tugs them towards the bed.

\------

These are the moments Celes loves: she’s caught in-between the two of them, now, Setzer behind her with his cock pressed against her ass and his hand between her legs, while Locke alternates between breathless kisses to her mouth and working his tongue across her breasts -- which makes her more breathless. Setzer’s got one finger against her clit, working in small simple patient circles that are making her go _mad._

She never knew it could feel like this: surrounded, stable, a place where it was okay to be vulnerable; a place to give, to receive, to be absolutely present in her body in a way that has nothing to do with casting magic or swinging a sword. It’s a lesson she should have learnt earlier, as Locke and Setzer both have, but her own space is so different than theirs. It’s part of why they work.

Celes lets Locke roll her to her back, moaning as the pressure from Setzer’s finger increases. Locke settles himself between her thighs, and leans over to tug Setzer up into a beautiful kiss, devouring each other as Setzer moans. His hand slips from between her thighs to cup Locke’s face, and she nearly _whines_ at its loss, her hips jerking upwards in search of some sort of touch, some pressure. Celes loves it when they kiss: Setzer’s pale hair, Locke’s sun-darkened skin, the way Setzer is precise and calculated while Locke just throws himself into it with wild abandon. 

She manages to get one hand around Locke’s dick, gently stroking upwards, and Locke chokes a sound into Setzer’s mouth. It isn’t hard to find Setzer’s cock with her other hand, and for a few long moments Celes is lost in the heady feeling: her lovers, beautiful, kissing atop her while she runs light fingers along their lengths, up and down, teasingly rubbing at the tips. The sounds they’re making are delightful and she _wants,_ she wants more noise, she wants them to _lose it,_ she wants to see them fall apart. She could nearly come from the sight alone but she wants to be _touched,_ and _taken,_ and surrounded.

Celes finally releases their cocks and nudges them with her shoulder; they allow her to move them as needed, so she straddles Setzer’s hips, letting the tip of his cock glide along her slick entrance. Setzer groans like a man dying and reaches for her hips, trying to pull her down. Locke meets her eyes and it’s like he’s reading her mind because he comes behind her, pressing his mouth to the curve of her shoulder. 

Celes positions herself and - slowly, carefully, inevitably - lets herself sink down onto Setzer’s cock. The feeling, the slow slide, the stretch, the heat: she lets herself feel every atom of it. Her walls are already clenching around him, and as she settles the entire way down she leans her head back to rest on Locke’s shoulder, her back arched.

———

Locke’s first move is to get a hand in Celes’ hair, tugging gently; she turns her face into his neck, whimpers, licks at his sweat-salt skin. His second move is to bring his hand down across the curves of her hipbone, down her pubis, until his middle and index fingers are pressing against her clit. Celes makes a noise like she can’t breathe and presses into his hand, which rocks her against Setzer, and Locke looks down over Celes’ shoulder to see Setzer’s eyes clenched shut, his hands fisting in the sheets to avoid bruising Celes’ thin skin, nearly shaking with the exertion of keeping himself still. They both know Celes loves the feeling of being fucked through orgasm, and it’s beautiful to watch as she shudders and comes apart.

Locke starts moving his fingers, quick and nimble, alternating between small circles and rapid strokes; he works her as she moves, brilliantly self-confident and instinctive, and Setzer keeps choking out words as his hips jerk uncontrollably up against her. She’s caught, between Locke’s hand and Setzer’s cock, and he can feel her tensing already.

“Yes, love,” he murmurs into the side of her neck, speeding up the flicks of his fingers against her, his knuckles occasionally brushing Setzer’s cock. “Yes.”

Celes turns her face back into his neck and comes apart with a shudder and a sigh: her thighs clench, her legs tighten, her hips shake, and the sigh becomes a long drawn-out moan as orgasm hits her in a rush. Locke slows down his movements, gently working every last bit of pleasure out of her, and Setzer covers his face in his hands and groans with need, nearly arching off the bed into her.

Locke’s rock-hard himself and he’s tempted to jack himself off right there, to the flush that creeps up Celes’ face and down her pale chest, to the relaxed slump of her limbs that only comes after pleasure, to Setzer’s tormented breathing. Instead he releases Celes’ hair, shifting his hips until he can press his cock into the slick-sweat crease of her ass, making slow tender motions against her as Celes catches her breath.

———

Setzer feels like he’s never even harder in his _life;_ he’s seconds away from coming, the feel of Celes shuddering down around his cock almost too much to take; she still isn’t moving so he’s making frantically small gestures with his hips, desperately seeking that hot friction. He isn’t going to last long, he can’t bear it, all he wants to do is frantically fuck up into her heat, and she has him pinned.

“Sssshhh, shhh, sshhh,” Locke’s murmuring at both of them, looking down at Setzer. He’s headily pleased, his eyes dark with arousal, and one hand comes down around Celes to stroke up Setzer’s chest, stopping to flick at a nipple. Setzer’s so lost that the sharp feeling goes right to his groin, his hips pushing upwards, looking for any kind of _space,_ looking to _move._

Celes raises her head, slowly, peering up at Setzer through the silky strands of her pale hair, and he swallows despite himself: her face is entirely flushed, her eyes are wide and focused, and there’s a smile on her lips that promises Setzer’s going to get every last inch of torment she can provide. She leans herself forwards now, her hands braced on Setzer’s chest, letting her hair trail over his skin. Setzer shudders as the movement gives him the space he needs to slam up into her, an instinctive gesture he needs as much as breathing, and Celes gasps this punched-out _oh_ as she presses back, burying his cock deep inside her. 

She’s panting, and her hips _finally_ start to move, blessed _goddesses,_ and Setzer can’t help that he palms her arse and holds _her_ in place, fucking up into her at a nearly brutal pace; she’s so wet, slick with orgasm, and he tugs her hips down onto him like he’s trying to break her in half. Her head drops again to rest on his chest and the sounds she makes now are loud enough for even Locke to hear through her hair: choked little gasps, and this rhythmic gasp that’s half a moan, her hands now clenching in the sheets at either side of Setzer’s face. 

“Gods, you’re so beautiful,” Locke says, reverently, and Setzer glances up to see Locke up on his knees, his hand idly around his own cock, watching them with the eyes of a predator. It’s that look that pushes Setzer over the edge, really: that kind of darkness shows up in Locke’s cheerful face and he’s a goner. He fucks up into Celes once, twice, and then his vision whites out as he spills inside her, still desperately thrusting even as his entire world is filled with shuddering pleasure. He feels her walls clench around him, and then he’s lost, his limbs turning to jelly. 

He comes back to Celes collapsed on his chest, his arms around her, fingers running up and down her spine. Locke’s crouched somewhat over her, hands on her hips as he gently guides her upwards, Setzer’s cock falling out of her to rest limply on his thigh.

———

Her world is tiny suns and stars, white and gold and swirling around her, languid pleasure between her thighs, beating with her pulse relentlessly; her entire body’s suffused with it, thick and glowing like her magic felt. She barely feels it as Locke slides inside her, because her body’s still yearning to be filled, again, for that hot stretch and the waves of pleasure; and it isn’t until he tilts her hips up and starts a slow relentless rhythm into her shuddering cunt that she’s fully back into her body, whimpering into Setzer’s shoulder. 

Setzer is warm beneath her, smelling of the room’s linens and clean sweat and the sweet-smelling oil in his hair. Locke’s behind her, moving her body like it’s his, and she loves to get lost in this haze: when she has nothing to do but exist, and feel, and _feel._ Locke’s nearly grunting, already, and she knows it won’t take long with the way it’s all gone, feverish and intense with the success of their quest. 

His hand wanders around again to the front, and Celes chokes on air as he starts fingering her clit, just enough that the sharp ache of sensitivity adds an edge to her overall languid state. She can feel her pleasure building already, buzzing like an uncast spell even though she’s still reeling from the aftershocks of her last explosion; she realizes she’s panting into Setzer’s hair only when Setzer gently brings her face upwards and licks into her mouth.

The overwhelming sensation: Locke filling her, hitting angles that make her entire body shudder, while Setzer is beneath her devouring any control she might have with his quick mouth, nipping at her lower lip and teasing his tongue against hers as Locke’s finger teases against her clit: Celes is absolutely trapped between them, willingly, and this time she comes with the force of a hurricane, knowing she’s safe, knowing she can release all of this and still be held. She groans into Setzer’s mouth as her overused inner muscles clench and release, near spasming at the force of it, her eyes clenching shut as throbbing heat suffuses her entire body. 

She barely feels when Locke stutters and comes inside her, but she hears his yell, a string of curses and their names, and can’t help shuddering again as the aftershocks work though her and wreck her. By the time she opens her eyes she’s slid off Setzer to curl up against his side, and Locke’s braced on his other side, wide-eyed and panting. Setzer just has his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open, and it’s always like this when they’re done: surprised, glazed-over looks, as if every time they remind each other just how good it can be. 

Celes manages to prop herself up; she kisses Setzer, then leans over him to kiss Locke. “Tomorrow,” she says, and it’s all she has to say, and all she can say, her sodden limbs beginning to pull her down into sleep.

“Tomorrow,” Setzer murmurs back, as Locke lets himself fall dramatically to the sheets, one arm flung across Setzer’s chest. Celes curls herself back in, her head resting on his shoulder, her hand clasped around Locke’s arm. 

Tomorrow is the end; tomorrow is a beginning. And tomorrow will be exactly the same.


End file.
